Since August 22nd I have attempted to chronicle as much as possible about the cornucopia of music I experienced at the Summit Music Festival in rural New York. In the course of discussing some of the more anticipated performances (such as String Cheese, Jazz Mandolin, and Deep Banana Blackout) I have overlooked some of the bands that also shaped the rich musical landscape of that weekend. I have put off incorporating them into the whole of my reviews for several reasons. For some I was enjoying the moment too much and was thus unable to really focus my attention towards that particular band. Others did not impress me enough to write about. With this article, I will attempt to bring closure to the experience as a whole.
Between the Jamie Janover and John Scoffield sets, was a blast from Motown’s past. The Persuasions were penciled in to play an hour-long set. Their music was a radical departure from any other band we had seen. They were five middle-aged black-guys that wore tye-dye’s T-shirts and sang purely accupella Grateful Dead and Beatles covers. The manner they were sung afforded me a greater appreciation of the lyrical dynamics these songs contained. Later in the afternoon I got a chance to see one of the bands I was anticipating hearing. When the announcer labeled the Funky Meters as one of the godfathers of New Orleans funk, I was anticipating a monumental performance. Sadly, I was somewhat let down. Although their talent was decent, I expected more. They didn’t seem to put together a cohesive sound that grabbed my attention.
Later in the night, my crew had forged decent seats for the Roots. Despite all the good and bad I had heard about them, they did impress me. Their fusion of hip-hop lyrics, DJ, and set up of guitar, drums, and bass, was rather unique. What impressed me even more was that they were quite good musicians. That was evident during a ten-minute drum solo that was unparalleled the entire weekend. Plus they took the game of rock and roll on their terms by rapping the lyrics. On Sunday, the very last act that we sat through was Max Creek. Although I was drained and danced little during their set, they belted out some raucous numbers that seemed to tap into the energy of the crowd. By that point a Pink Floyd-Roger Waters reunion wouldn’t have had me moving all too much either. I was going on about seven hours of sleep in the past forty-eight hours. My mind was already napping in the car on the five-hour ride west.
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